


I'll Go With You

by shiphitsthefan



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Actual BAMF Eileen Leahy, Alternate Universe - High School, Band Fic, Bathrooms, Cole Trenton Is An Irredeemable Jackass, F/F, Good Parent John Winchester, MTF Sam, Meet-Cute, Podfic Welcome, Trans Sam Winchester, Transgender, Transphobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-07-19 23:16:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7381474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiphitsthefan/pseuds/shiphitsthefan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam Winchester has a wonderful and supportive family, a fabulous best friend, and a trumpet solo in the All-State Band concert.</p><p>Unfortunately, she also has a roadblock, and his name is Cole Trenton.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Go With You

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was prompted by my utter disgust at the use of a trans slur in episode 11x15. I was thinking out loud over on twitter and it basically came down to, "Imagine trans!Sam and Eileen punching transphobes," or something like that. Regardless of the actual wording of my own prompt, this is the fic that came out of it.
> 
> ([Violue](http://archiveofourown.org/users/violue/pseuds/violue/works) wrote a fic using the same prompt; go give ["Mall Trip"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6576970) some love, too.)
> 
> While I maintain that writers do not need to use slurs to show that their characters are villainous, I _did_ choose to use one in this work to highlight how it was used harmfully in the episode. So be wary of that. Were it not an issue I still tweet TPTB about off and on, I would not have used the slur, at all.
> 
> I am transgender myself--a nonbinary trans boy, assigned female at birth (AFAB), to be exact--but I have neither the experience of being a trans girl nor of being AMAB (assigned male at birth). Though I did my research for this fic, please do not assume this to be the universal experience of an MtF (male to female) trans person. We each have our own unique journeys and stories; this is merely the one I wrote for Sam.
> 
> Finally, if you are Travis Aaron Wade, please don't send me a cease and desist over this. We both know that would be a complete waste of time, so do us both a favor and find something better to do than policing portrayals of yourself and/or your minor character. <3
> 
> Super-duper-uper thanks to [Llewcie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Llewcie/pseuds/Llewcie/works) for being an awesome beta and all-around superb human being. You're going to give me an enormous ego one of these days.
> 
> I wrote this for the [SPN Writing Challenge for June](http://spnwritingchallenge.tumblr.com/post/144475737584/welcome-to-the-june-edition-of-the-supernatural).
> 
> Please do not repost/copy/duplicate this work to other sites. That's called theft.

Sam knew today was going to be rough when she showed up five minutes late and had to chase the bus to the end of the street with her trumpet case clutched to her chest. It wouldn’t have been so bad if she’d worn flats, but Sam had finally found heels her size after months of searching, and like hell was she not going to wear them.

“Wow,” her best friend Kevin had told her when she showed them to him the night before. “How tall are you now? Nine feet? Ten?”

“It works for Gwendoline Christie,” Sam had replied with a scowl.

She’s having second thoughts now, though. The heels are brand new, a pair of power statements in shiny black unbroken leather. Even with the moleskin wrapped around her feet, they pinch and rub and creak. She feels wobbly, even though she’s practiced in too-small heels before, but that might be nerves and not balance.

Mr. Turner nods at her as she steps up into the bus, trying to catch her breath.

“Glad you could join us, Sam,” he says with a smirk as he checks off Sam’s name on the attendance list.

“Sorry, Mr. Turner.”

“You got a good excuse for me?”

Sam shrugs and looks at him guiltily. “I woke up late, and then I had to get dressed and…” She gestures vaguely at her chest before continuing, “It took longer than I expected it to. And Dean couldn’t get my hair to cooperate and I just wanted to look _nice_ today and--”

Mr. Turner shushes her and ushers her into an empty seat toward the middle. “Sam, it’s okay. And you _do_ look nice. I’ve never seen you in anything but flannel and boots and jeans. You clean up good.”

“Thank you,” Sam says quietly.

“Just next competition, make sure you practice your outfit as hard as you practice your scales.”

Sam smiles and tells him, “I will,” as Mr. Turner makes his way back to the front of the bus to give the driver the go-ahead to get the show back on the road. Kevin gives Sam a salute as she slides into the seat beside him.

“I told you I should have stayed over last night,” Kevin says, shaking his head slightly.

“You know how Dad feels about co-ed sleepovers, Kev.”

Kevin sighs dramatically, leaning his head against the window and giving it his best Sandra Bernhardt. “Here,” he says after he recovers, “let me hold your trumpet; you’ll wrinkle your everything.”

Sam smiles as she hands over her case, an ancient brown monstrosity held together with an equal number of Led Zeppelin decals (Dean’s) and My Little Pony stickers (Sam’s). She smooths down the loose corner on a Fluttershy. “I would’ve stowed it under the bus, but...well, being late and all, I didn’t wanna ask.”

“No sweat,” replies Kevin. “This is why God made no-crease khakis.” He pauses before adding, “Turner’s right, you know.”

“About what?” Sam asks as the bus rumbles back to life and turns out of the school parking lot.

“Dean did a good job with your hair.”

She runs a long, smooth, flat strand through her fingers. “He’s definitely in the right line of work.”

“Did he do your make-up, too?”

Sam grins and rolls her eyes. “I don’t have spiders for eyelashes and my liner’s straight. Pretty sure you don’t have to ask.”

Kevin shrugs. “I mean it did take you seven years to get here this morning so--”

“It did not!” says Sam, punching him in the arm with a giggle. “Five at most.”

“I’ll give you six.”

“My lucky day.”

 

* * *

  

She _has_ been lucky so far, much luckier than others whose transitions she’s read about.

Sam had come to her dad one day after sex ed in the seventh grade and asked, “Did you not feel like a boy sometimes when you were growing up?”

John had pulled himself out from under the car and squinted up at her. “What? You mean puberty?”

“Yeah,” Sam had said, trying to look everywhere but her father’s eyes. “Did you feel like you were all...wrong?”

“Wrong how?”

“That your body was wrong.”

And John had clapped her on the leg and said, “You’ll get used to bein’ hard at all the wrong times, kiddo, don’t worry,” and pulled himself back under the car.

It took Sam another month before she felt up to asking again. Rather, not so much asking as blurting out, “I wish I could get a period,” over dinner. Dean had literally choked on his mashed potatoes, and John had stared at the corner of the table between his two sons as though he couldn’t decide who to acknowledge first.

“Why do you want a period, Sam?” John had finally managed to ask after Dean had remembered how to breathe and excused himself from the table.

Sam pushed her potatoes around on her plate in lieu of answering. It wasn’t so much that she wanted to menstruate--it just seemed unfair was all, a reminder that if she ever had a child, she wouldn’t be the one to carry it. Just like growing breasts or developing curvy hips and a natural sway to her step, it was one more thing Sam never thought she would be able to experience.

Girls at school would talk about going shopping over lunch, paint each other’s nails in study hall, make elaborately-drawn signs for each other with markers during biology. They did their hair after gym, and their makeup after lunch, and wore bright-colored leggings under soft sheath dresses. Sure, it wasn’t all of the girls--there were plenty who didn’t--but all the girls Sam envied did.

Sam would come home from school and do her homework, eat dinner with her dad and brother, and then go up to her room and either read or practice on her trumpet while they watched wrestling. The next day, she’d get up, put on her brother’s hand-me-downs, and restart the cycle. Even the trumpet had been Dean’s, though she was unarguably better at playing it.

“Sam?”

“I don’t think…” And the peas had suddenly been just as interesting as the potatoes. “I don’t think I’m…”

John had sighed as he stood up, pushed himself away from the table, and walked over to pull Sam out of her chair and into a hug. Sam hadn’t even felt herself start to cry, but John’s shirt was damp on her face by the time he asked, “You wanna talk about it later, son?”

“‘M not.”

“Not what?”

“A son.”

John had blinked. “How you figure?”

“I don’t feel like a boy, Dad,” she had said, and then whispered, “I wish I was a girl. I _want_ to be a girl.”

They had stood there hugging well past Gunner Lawless’ introduction, neither one of them really knowing what else to say.

Sam knows that, for a lot of girls like her, their parents would have stuck them in therapy or found some other way of putting “a stop to it”. John didn’t stick her in therapy, though--he stuck all _three_ of them in therapy, drove the family an hour and a half away twice a week to a transgender health clinic that specialized in transition for children. There was no more wrestling after dinner because John cut off the cable in order to help pay for it; Dean picked up an easy job hosting at the Roadhouse down by the highway so they could keep the Internet on and gas in the car.

“You’re my kid br--sister,” he’d told Sam. “‘Course I’m gonna help out.”

Family dinner had turned into just John and Sam after a few months when Dean started picking up extra shifts. Sam had questioned it, but Dean had told her he was saving up for a car, and the matter had been dropped.

When Sam had opened her birthday gifts the next year, she had been confused at Dean’s present.

“An RC?” she’d asked skeptically. “I mean, thanks, Dean, I appreciate it, I’m just--”

“I mean we lost all our stuff in the fire, so I thought--”

“Oh!” Sam had said in realization. “Is this the same model you made Dad buy for me when I was born?”

“Somethin’ like that,” Dean had answered noncommittally.

“Which, by the way? Weird.”

“Shut it, Sam,” Dean had said, “I was four. Anyway, it’s ready to go, why don’t you open her up?”

“But I haven’t opened Dad’s ye--”

And John had grabbed his gift for Sam and held it away as he said, “Go ahead and finish opening Dean’s.”

Sam had opened the box and cried.

“I thought you were getting a car,” she’d said, choked up, as she pulled out the package of estrogen patches and the bottle of anti-androgen tablets their shitty insurance had refused to cover.

Dean had shrugged and said, “I lied.”

Even now, in her freshman year, Sam still looks mostly flat, but her face has smoothed and her skin has softened. She’ll never be able to widen her hips, but she’s curvier than she used to be. Sam and Kevin had marathoned seasons of _Project Runway_ and _America’s Next Top Model_ in their attempts to feminize Sam’s stride only to have summer band camp drill it back out again. Dean still has a large influence over her wardrobe since plaid had, in a shocking turn of events, come back into fashion. More important than that, however, was her brother’s surprising knowledge of how to properly size and wear women’s underwear.

John was just glad he hadn’t had to be the one to take Sam bra shopping.

Sam pays attention to both the news and Twitter; she knows how dehumanizing the process of transition can be, knows that so many girls like her have to jump through hoops to be recognized as people, let alone to be seen as themselves. Her family may not believe in God, but Sam thanks whoever’s up there every night that she hasn’t had to fight for dignity. Sam wasn’t kicked out of her home; she wasn’t forced to live on the street; she’s had access to adequate medical and psychological care; the school system didn’t make a fuss, and neither did the state, both allowing her to change her gender markers (or, as she likes to call them, gender crayons) and making the process relatively smooth.

In a conservative town in a conservative state, Sam has experienced very little resistance. A handful of people have been intolerant, but she’s had her family to shield her and her best friend to back her up.

Unfortunately, it was only a matter of time until Sam faced transphobia head on and alone.

 

* * *

 

Mr. Turner finally wrestles Kevin’s tuba case out from underneath the bus, and Sam carries it for Kevin like she always does because it’s too big for him to do it himself. It’s been a staple of their friendship since they first met; Sam teases Kevin that they’ll have to go to the same college so that she can keep lugging his stuff around for him.

Not here, though. Neither one of them have their eyes set on a public university for anything but a fall-back choice. Kripke might have the best marching band in the state, but it isn’t Stanford, not by a long shot.

Sam isn’t thinking about that right now, though. Right now, she’s just trying to get Kevin and his tuba to the practice room as quickly as possible so that she can get to the bathroom.

“Geez, Sam,” says Kevin, “you pee more than my mom,”

“You know what my meds do to me.”

Kevin opens his mouth to reply, but his eyes grow wide as he cranes his head to look around Sam. “Holy crap.”

“What?” asks Sam. She turns her head to look until Kevin hisses at her. “What?” she asks again.

“Don’t look now,” Kevin says, “she’s gonna walk past you?”

Sam stands stock still. “Who?”

“Gorgeous girl with mallets. Totally your type. Okay, turn your head now, here she comes.”

She glances over, already nervous, and Kevin was right. Whoever this is, she’s beautiful. Her long brown hair is pulled into a simple, slicked-back ponytail. She’s wearing a sleeveless beige blouse, ruffled down the front, shimmery, professional. Her black trousers flare slightly at the leg, and she’s wearing heeled boots that match her shirt. Pretty gold hoops dangle from her ears, and she’s got two green yarn mallets in each hand, walking down the middle of the hall like she owns it.

“C’mon, Sam,” Kevin whispers. “Wave at her.”

Sam holds her hand up awkwardly in the air and wiggles her fingers at her, but she doesn’t see her.

“Oh my God, _say something.”_

“Hi,” Sam squeaks, but the girl just keeps walking, not acknowledging her at all. She looks down at Kevin sadly.

Kevin shrugs. “Maybe she didn’t hear you.”

“It’s okay, Kev. I still need to find a bathroom, anyway. Maybe I’ll see her later at lunch.”

“Seriously,” says Kevin, wrinkling his nose as he lets Sam change the topic. “Oughta get you a bathroom pass with your name on it.”

“Yeah, and I oughta make you carry your own tuba.”

“You’ll miss me if I get squashed like a bug.” Kevin grins and sets Sam’s trumpet case down on the floor. “Here, I can drag it the rest of the way; just go already.”

“You sure?”

“Beats seeing your ‘I gotta pee’ dance,” says Kevin, grunting as he starts inching his way backwards down the hall. “God knows you can’t dance.”

Sam rolls her eyes, stoops carefully to pick up her trumpet, and walks off toward the restroom as quickly as her heels allow.

When she sees who’s standing in front of the bathrooms, though, she turns right back around and heads back toward Kevin, who hasn’t progressed very far. Sam picks up his tuba and leaves Kevin to follow.

“I thought you really had to go.”

“I did,” Sam says. “I do. But--”

“But what?” asks Kevin, jogging to keep up with Sam’s stride.

Sam sighs. “You remember Dean’s ex?”

“Which one, the bear that moved away, the asshole exchange student, or the jackass who made fun of you?”

Sam stops outside the door to the practice room before clarifying, “The one who took him to senior prom as a freshman. Or at least was going to.”

Kevin makes a face of disgust. “Cole?”

“Yeah.”

“What about him?”

Sam bites her lip and fidgets. “He’s here.” When Kevin gives her a confused look, she explains, “He’s here, and he’s got a volunteer badge.”

Kevin groans and hangs his head. “I forgot he went here. Percussion, right?”

Sam sets down Kevin’s tuba and leans back against the tile wall. “Timpani. There’s probably a bunch of college kids getting extra credit today or something. Anyway he’s right in front of the restrooms.”

“You want me to go with you?”

“I don’t need someone to hold my hand while I pee, Kev.”

Kevin stares at her, unconvinced. “Then why did you come back?”

“Moral support?” Sam hugs her trumpet case to her chest. “Shared pain? I needed to dish?”

“I will, you know,” says Kevin, reaching up to put his hand on her shoulder. “Go with you, I mean. I’ll defend your honor.”

Sam snickers. “My hero.”

“I’m serious!”

“I know,” she says, “and I appreciate it, but I don’t really know what you would do. It’s not like you can follow me into the bathroom or anything.”

Kevin kicks softly at his tuba case. “You think he’ll try something?”

“All he did last time was call me stuff,” Sam replies. “I don’t think it’ll be anything serious, just...names.”

“Well that sucks, too.”

“Could be worse.”

Kevin rubs at the back of his neck before shifting his tuba case to drag it into the practice room. “Be careful, okay?”

Sam smiles and nods, putting on a face that hopefully looks more confident than she feels.

The walk back down toward the bathroom is uncomfortable, not only for her bladder. All Sam can think about is Cole sneering at her when John went upstairs to get Dean. Calling her mental. Confused. Asking if she still had a dick, where her boobs were, if she knew her brother was ashamed of her.

Sam knew better, but it stung, thinking that her brother would date someone like Cole. She didn’t want to ruin Dean’s fun at prom, so Sam said nothing and let her dad take a hundred photos, and then told John after they left. Sam asked her not to tell Dean, but it turned out that John didn’t have to. Cole ran his mouth about Sam at prom to one of his percussionist buddies, and Dean overheard and broke Cole’s nose for it.

“I know it’s not my fault,” Sam had said to Dean as she slid into her seat at the table, “but I still feel bad about it.”

“Just seals my bad boy cred,” Dean had told her with a cocky grin, passing over the box of Lucky Charms. “I get a three-day vacation from school, and the whole senior class knows that Cole’s an intolerant douchebag. Everybody wins.”

“Yeah,” John had said, shoveling eggs out of the skillet onto each of their plates. “And you’re damn lucky the Trentons were satisfied with suspension. They could’ve gotten you with assault charges.”

“Sammy’s worth it.”

Sam’s still not entirely sure that she is, but Cole never darkened their doorstep or harassed her again. He moved off to college, and his parents retired to Florida, and that was the last they ever heard of Cole Trenton.

“That you, Sam Winchester?”

Until now.

Cole has his hands jammed in the pockets of his blue dress pants, a swagger to his stance, and a cocky smile. Sam has no idea what’s going on with either the hair on his head or the hair on his face, but he’s put together well otherwise. _At least_ something’s _nice about him,_ Sam thinks.

“Yeah, that _is_ you,” says Cole, and Sam’s frozen where she stands. The bathroom is ten feet away, but the impromptu gatekeeper is five feet closer. “See you’re still pretending to be a girl,” Cole continues.

“I’m not pretending,” Sam tells him. “I _am_ a girl.”

“Oh, I guess Dean introduced you to me as your brother for shits and giggles then, huh?”

Sam rolls her eyes. “I wasn’t out then. I hadn’t talked to Dad yet. Everything was confusing.”

“So you admit to being confused,” says Cole with a sneer. “Knew you were crazy.”

“I’m not--”

“You in therapy, Sam?”

“It’s none of your business,” Sam snaps back.

“You know pills can’t fix that,” says Cole. “You should pray more. Then you’d know that you’re a boy because you have a dick and God doesn’t make mistakes.”

Sam swallows, hard. She’s not going to cry, not in front of Cole, not when she’s got first chair and a solo and a section to carry. Sam can’t afford to lose it.

Cole keeps talking, but Sam is trying to look anywhere but him--the ceiling, the bulletin board, her nice new shoes. There are other students walking past, coming in and out of the bathroom, going up and down the hall, and she tries not to meet their eyes. Sam feels her confidence in her ability to pass as the girl she is dropping lower and lower; it’s like she’s standing at the foot of the stairs holding Dean’s boutonniere all over again, the wrong hormones pumping through her wrong body.

She tunes back in when Cole asks, “So your brother still a slut?”

“What?”

 _“Dean,”_ says Cole, drawing out the vowels like it proves a point. “He’s easier than government work.”

“Government work is actually very important,” Sam says, skirting the issue because thinking about her brother’s sex life makes her want to hurl. It’s bad enough that she’s seen his extensive underwear collection. “You shouldn’t make light of it.”

“Yeah, and your brother shouldn’t bounce in and out of beds.”

“He never cheated on you,” Sam says, resisting the urge to cross her legs. “Dean just flirts with everybody.”

Cole steps forward, much closer than Sam feels comfortable with. “He’d never flirt with anyone like you.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Well, good. I really don’t want my brother to flirt with me.”

“I meant a shem.”

Now Sam can’t keep her lip from wobbling. She’s heard that slur before, on her favorite television show, no less. “My brother’s pansexual.”

Cole laughs. “Wow, so now he’s getting his rocks off with kitchenware?”

“No, it’s a new definition for bisexual,” Sam explains, reigning in her traitorous lip. “Dean’s bi, but pan is more inclusive of the entire gender spectrum and--”

“And you alphabet soup people keep making up new words.”

Sam squints at him. “You know that _all_ words are made up, right?”

She turns her head, doing her best to act bored, and that’s when she sees the same lovely girl from before walking back down the hallway, this time pushing a marimba. Their eyes meet, finally, and the percussionist waves at her. Sam raises her hand to wave back, and Cole slaps it out of the air.

“The fuck do you think you’re doing?” Cole asks Sam, raising his voice, as close to being in her face as he can get.

“Making a new friend?”

“I don’t think so.”

Sam sighs wearily. “Look, Cole, just move so I can go to the bathroom, okay? I’ve got a practice room to be in.” She moves to go into the ladies’ room, but Cole steps in front of her. “Could you move out of the way?”

“No,” says Cole, “I can’t. You’re going to the wrong bathroom.”

“I’m going to the girls’ room.”

“Yeah, and you’re not biologically a girl.”

Sam’s going to cry. She’s going to cry, and the beautiful girl that just waved at her is going to see, and she’s going to hear Cole telling Sam she’s not a girl. Sam could launch into the whole explanation of science actually backing the idea of a gender spectrum, but she knows Cole won’t listen. All she wants to do is get back on the bus and leave. Sam doesn’t even care about the solo anymore; let the alternate have it. No musical spotlight is worth this one in the hallway.

“Why do you care where I go to the bathroom?”

Cole looks at her like she’s crazy, which isn’t all that different from how he’s been looking at her this entire conversation, really. “Because you’re a guy. And you’re tall, too. You could peep over the top of a stall at some girl no problem.”

“I’m not a pervert!”

“Really?” Cole challenges. “Because you’re wearing a dress like one. Get your ass in the men’s r--”

Cole gets run over by a wayward marimba.

All Sam can do for the first few seconds is stare down at Cole in shock. Once she finally remembers that the marimba was held by someone, Sam looks up and over to where it came from.

That pretty percussionist has her hands on her hips, and she looks pissed off.

“What the hell was that for?” Cole shouts from the floor, pulling his leg out from under the marimba. When the girl says nothing, just keeps glaring at him, he tells her, “I’m gonna have you thrown out!”

The girl shakes her head and points to her ear with one hand. “I’m sorry,” she says, “but I can’t hear you.”

Cole’s face is completely red. “I _said_ that I’m going to--”

“No,” she continues, “I’m deaf. I really can’t hear you.” She looks him up and down disapprovingly. “I don’t think I’d want to, anyway.”

He pushes himself up from the floor. “I don’t care _what_ you are, you’re going home for assaulting me. I’ve got responsibility around here. I volunteer all the time. I’m very important in the campus community--I was on the shortlist for the President’s Award.”

“Somehow, I don’t think your volunteer duties include policing the bathroom,” Sam says, ignoring the rest of Cole’s resume.

“I am _trying_ to keep women safe!”

“And _I_ am trying to use the bathroom, Cole.” Sam smirks and adds, “And something tells me that she can take care of herself.”

“Listen he-- _ow!”_ Cole jumps back, the marimba having hit him again.

The girl looks innocent and says, “Oops. Slipped.”

Cole is fuming; Sam is sure that steam is going to blow out of his ears any minute now. “I’m going to get Mr. Turner, Sam. We’ll see who has the last laugh then.” He turns and practically marches off.

The girl touches Sam gently on the arm. “Are you okay?” she asks.

Sam is flustered for two reasons now. First, she’s even more attractive close up, her eyes a warm honey brown, lips a glossy pink, eyebrows shaped better than Sam could ever hope to do herself. Second, she knows maybe four signs at most.

Luckily, one of them is thank you.

The girl smiles and looks a little surprised, but signs something back that Sam hopes means you’re welcome, but could be directions to Timbuktu as far as she knows.

Sam shakes her head. “I’m sorry,” she says, “I only know a few words of ASL.”

“That’s okay,” the girl replies. “I can read lips pretty well.”

“Do I...should I speak more slowly, or is that insulting?” asks Sam.

“Just face me and talk like you would to anybody else. Except maybe to that jerk.” The girl sticks out her hand. “I’m Eileen.”

Sam takes it. “Sam,” she says, suddenly shy.

“Are you sure you’re okay, Sam?”

“Yeah,” Sam tells her, nodding. “It’s not the first time I’ve had to deal with him, unfortunately.”

“I just don’t understand why he cares. It’s not his business. Just...creepy.”

“Yeah, well...not everybody thinks about it like that.”

“Well those people suck,” says Eileen, and Sam notices that they’re still holding hands, but doesn’t say anything. “Oh no. He’s coming back.”

“Ugh. Great. I really need to pe--” Sam claps a hand over her mouth. “Oh God, TMI,” she says, muffled and mortified.

Eileen shrugs. “Bodies are gross, stuff comes out of them. No big deal.”

“That’s her!” Cole’s grating voice comes from behind Sam. “She hit me with a marimba!”

“Jesus, Cole,” says Mr. Turner. “Chill out with the pointing. What are you, five?” He claps a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Sam, what happened here?”

“I need to use the restroom,” says Sam. “Cole wouldn’t let me.”

“And he said a lot of nasty things,” Eileen chimes in.

“Is that right?”

Cole huffs. “He was trying to go in the girls’ room.”

“And why, exactly, is her going to the restroom your problem?”

“No, not her,” Cole says, pointing at Eileen. “Him,” and he points at Sam.

“Cole Trenton, I see two very nicely-dressed young ladies here.”

Cole wrinkles his brow, but doesn’t respond.

“And don’t you have better things to be doing than harassing a couple of high school freshmen?” Mr. Turner crosses his arms over his chest and levels his most intimidating band director look of disapproval at him.

“She hit me with her marimba on purpose!”

“Now Cole,” says Mr. Turner, “I find that very hard to believe. I’m sure she just fumbled her grip on it. Isn’t that right, miss?”

“Absolutely,” Eileen agrees. “I’ll be more careful from now on.”

“See?” Mr. Turner winks at Sam and Eileen before turning back to Cole. “She’ll be more careful from now on.”

“I just--” Cole stops, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He looks skittish. Sam’s never seen him look like anything other than an asshole.

“Mmhmm. You just what?”

Cole tugs at the cuffs of his shirt. “I have to get back to folding programs.”

“Why don’t I escort you there?” He grabs Cole’s arm and, with a dip of his head at Sam and Eileen, practically drags Cole back down the hallway.

Sam starts to giggle, and then stops suddenly, remembering what got her into this mess in the first place. “Hey, um, I’m really sorry to duck out like this, Eileen, but, y’know…” She winces and finishes, “Nature calls.”

“What a coincidence,” says Eileen, pushing her marimba against the wall.

“What is?”

Eileen flips the breaks on each wheel. She grins up at Sam. “I have an overwhelming urge to check my make-up.”

“You gonna protect me from the monsters in the bathroom?”

“Yeah,” says Eileen. “I am. I’ll go with you.”

“Okay,” Sam says quietly, her smile growing wide. “Okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> "Gender crayons" is actually my own term! I'm terribly proud of it.
> 
> The title of the fic actually comes from a trans ally movement/support network of the same name. [I'll Go With You](http://www.illgowithyou.org/) is intended as a way for allies to identify themselves as a friendly, safe person in unsafe public spaces. Though it arose as a response to what I call The Great Bathroom Panic, the project is meant to extend beyond simply being a bathroom buddy. There are some trans persons who are wary of I'll Go With You, but the fear of harassment and violence is very real. I, personally, think it's a great idea; it's comforting to me to think that there are cis people willing to put themselves out there for harassment themselves.
> 
> One last note; please remember that, as an ally, it is not your job to speak for trans persons. Being an ally means creating opportunity for trans persons to speak for themselves. You are a platform, an amplifier for a message. More than anything else, we need you to listen. :)
> 
> This was crossposted to my tumblr. If you enjoyed the story, please consider [reblogging it](http://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/post/146871451304/ill-go-with-you) to share with others!
> 
> You can find me on my [tumblr](http://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/). I also chirp occasionally witty things on [twitter](https://twitter.com/shiphitsthefan).
> 
> Kudos and comments validate my existence. <3


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